Mike Hussey was bowled by Graham Onions on his first ball faced at Edgbaston, the second time he has left a straight delivery. Photograph: Paul Ellis/AFP/Getty Images

These Australians are way too nice for their own good. With the exception of their muzzled captain, Ricky Ponting, a rehabilitated larrikin of the old school, and possibly Peter Siddle and Ben Hilfenhaus, who are not yet fully house-trained, they are seriously lacking in the essential ingredient of all good Australian cricket teams, a bit of "mongrel".

It is an expression perfectly suited to that quality that has not only dug them out of holes in the past – from the long-haired days of Ian Chappell to the sledge-heavy era of Steve Waugh – but has also been their chosen weapon of intimidation. It has embroidered their skills to the point where few teams have been able to live with them except in times of transition. This is such a time.

When the grizzled features of Merv Hughes flashed – or rather spread – on to the big screen at Edgbaston yesterday, sitting among Australia fans looking every inch like a Tasmanian jailer circa 1830, we were reminded what they used to bring to the party. He came from hairy times.

Hughes was a proud heir to a tradition made glorious by the Chappells, Dennis Lillee, Jeff Thomson and Rod Marsh, accompanied by a supporting cast that came and went in a blur – men who made their own mate and sometime skipper Kim Hughes cry. It was refined by the Waughs, Glenn McGrath, Shane Warne, Ian Healy, martial artist Justin Langer, chest-out Matthew Hayden and all the other brilliant bullies of the 1990s and the early part of this millennium.

Nothing lasts forever, though. Those guys are gone. We will not see their like again, as Don Bradman once said of Stan McCabe in an different context, and Australia have to school a new generation of foot soldiers to bring their peculiar brand of antipodean charm back to Test cricket.

They were sadly missing "a bit of mongrel" when they needed it today. In the course of giving up five wickets to James Anderson and four to Graham Onions in an extraordinary capitulation after the best of starts, there was an undeniable sense of softness about them.

All the fight came at the top of the innings, when Shane Watson and Simon Katich had to do little more than take advantage of some the worst seam bowling England have managed since, well, Lord's, and Siddle and Hilfenhaus gritted their teeth at the end, when humiliation beckoned.

Here's how they fell:

Simon Katich, a serious but hardly threatening presence, swung and missed on the first evening.

Watson, one of the nicest cricketers ever to wear the baggy green, according to the dwindling troupe of writers chronicling their deeds, shuffled and was gone first ball this morning.

He was followed immediately by Mr Cricket, Mike Hussey, who self-analysed himself out, leaving a straight ball for the second time in the series.

Ponting, despairing at the carnage among the little chicks around him, fetched, nicked and went.

Marcus North, who is almost English, played prettily, then reached for a wide one.

New boy Graham Manou, looking grateful to be here, could be forgiven for not handling the best ball of the match so far.

Mitchell Johnson – poor Mitch, who has attracted the sympathy of even the hardcore Barmy Army because of his atrocious bowling and outspoken mother – did not play a shot, perhaps in fear of offending someone.

Then the tough guys, Siddle and Hilfenhaus, did their best to fight back before going down in flames, as good tailenders should.

Clearly the underbelly of this team resides between four and nine. These ought to be the engine-room run compilers, who build ungettable scores. Of course, they can still do it – and, in all likelihood, will improve in the second innings. But they are vulnerable now. The much-discussed aura is gone. And it is not coming back. Not in this series. There is nothing to fear.